Published on: 7/15/2010
Disconnected

The answering machine light remains solid,
the empty side of my bed is full
of new pillows. It is almost midnight
and I sit at the kitchen table folding
a math book closed, my homework
tucked in-between like a tongue
wilted against the lower lip. My son
has kicked off his sheet so I lift
his pillow-soft legs but as I cover him
he walks over the sheet, the slightest
touch draws this reaction.
I press my cheek against his forehead,
listen to his breath and kiss him. In the house
there is the dishwasher
and silence, two sounds that cradle me
through nights since his father
finally left. I circle through
rooms before bed and think of
school and work and preschool
and bills and cleaning and laundry.
When I hear a sound my ears perk
but it's never the phone, I turned that off
months ago after listening to his voice
follow me through the house, trying, with a mere
pause and shift in tone, to get back inside my heart.